


Suave Sesquipedalian Bastard

by blcwriter



Series: Suave Sesquipedalian Bastard [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, wordy as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-30
Updated: 2009-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  Chris is trapped in an inferno of words, and Zach Quinto is the devil stoking the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suave Sesquipedalian Bastard

_  
***Facepalm* RPF Fic, Chris/Zach, Suave Sesquipedalian Bastard, NC-17, 3/3**   
_   


Title: Suave Sesquipedalian Bastard  
Author: blcwriter  
Words:  Wordy, wordy, wordy  
Pairing:  Pine/Quinto  
Warnings:  NC-17 for more pollysyllabic smut than your fangrrl panties can stand.  I hope.  Also, unrepentant word! and lit!porn, because Chris is a wordslut and so, too, am I. 

  


Summary:  Chris is trapped in an inferno of words, and Zach Quinto is the devil stoking the fire.

*Facepalm.*  I can't believe I wrote real person fic.  Clearly, this the product of too much bourbon, the YouTube vids of Chris & Zach having vocabulary wars, and the rpf goddess [](http://smutjunkie.livejournal.com/profile)[**smutjunkie**](http://smutjunkie.livejournal.com/).  It's all her fault.  
 

  


\--

  


  
  


 

The applause is thunderous-- a _coup de foudre_ that puts Chris back into himself alongside his Stephen, a character the audience apparently loves-- and it's a tight fit, Chris inside his skin with his character, but it's nothing that hasn't happened before.  He's always stunned-feeling right after he finds out he's let a character inhabit him truly again and the applause of the crew on the first day of shooting or the ones crowding a theater are what he needs for the scintilla of Chris that's still left to expand back into something different from his original shape, because he's an actor, and his personal character is chameleonic, more than a bit. He changes colors and patterns every time he succeeds in a new role-- the changes are not in a mirror, just in adaptation, learned behaviors to add to his arsenal.  Not evolution, either-- he's still as fucking insecure as he ever is, and he's going to need this applause for a million more years, but fuck it feels good right here, center stage for his personal bow.  

He finishes taking his bows and goes back to his dressing room, staring at himself in the mirror, still in his character's clothes.  There's a reason why Chris' personal sartorial palette is boring, plain t-shirts and hoodies and jeans and stupid sneakers from his stupid sneaker collection-- he knows he's pretty blank on the inside, a tabula rasa for roles and the words he gets to embody, and he takes _realperverseobsceneself-defeating_ satisfaction in the fact that the outer layers should mimic the inner.  He'll dress up for a night on the town or a premiere or an interview, because Chris Pine The Actor has his own uniform, but bare-- _barelythere is more like it_ \-- Chris is different and he feels stifled putting on clothes with more personality than he has.

  


Slowly, he peels off the layers of Stephen and stands in his boxers in front of the mirror.  He's in good shape-- he's had time to work out regularly and he's gained back all the lean definition he had while he was working as Kirk and that he lost a bit on the junket, too many cities with noodles and beer and not enough treadmills where he could successfully run to stand still-- and he tries a smile on for size, the one for the paparazzi sure to be waiting outside.  It's not quite right, and he tries it again, then frowns because usually his smiles are like ties, pretty and shiny when you unroll them and compact enough to carry a bunch around all at once so he can change as often as he chooses.

  
  


This one doesn't work either, and the Chris-self under his skin squirms unhappily, grating hard up against Stephen and not feeling the usual liquid pressure that sloshes around a bit until he's all settled again.  He's feeling like sandpaper on cut skin this time, a hard burning, and it scares the shit out of him because usually he floats down from the applause like a cartoon air balloon coming in for a soft landing and tonight, he's just _not_.  He _is_ not-- nothing, negated, not coming back to any place where he's comfortable, which, hello, why is he surprised?  He's been denying who he is since Seoul, if not St. Petersburg.

  
  


"That, my dear Christopher, was utterly masterful," comes Zach's voice, and Chris can't help but startle because he's physically and metaphysically naked, here in his dressing room, and Zach was not what he expected.  He actually _meeps_ with surprise, whirling to face his friend and accuser and _fuck_ Zach looks beautiful, all sleek in Zegna, black pants and teal shirt and black jacket and tie, all dressed up for Chris' opening night.

  
  


He'd sent Zach tickets, of course, along with his parents and other friends from the cast, even spoken with Zach before to accept his well-wishes, but they hadn't really talked or seen one another in, well, a while, and it was unsettling for Zach to be here right away when Chris wasn't settled back into whomever he was going to be now, now that Stephen was who he was going to be for the run.

  
  


"Thanks," Chris manages, answering, and all too-well-aware he's let too many silent seconds pass by while he stares at his friend.  He's been leaning on the back of Chris' dressing room door and Chris never heard him come in-- and it's not like Zach hasn't ever seen Chris in just his boxers before, makeup trailers and overnight shoots and half-drunken collapses on junkets make modesty something almost foreign to actors, but Chris is suddenly angry.  Here he'd been, trying to find a new space that doesn't have Zach in it, doesn't require Chris to define himself around another actor and character who meant more than just words, trying to figure out who he might be able to be this time in the hopes it would see him through Reboots Two and Three without the angstfest he was thinking he'd finally gotten over by subsuming himself in Stephen, someone lightyears from Kirk.  And yet-- here's fucking Zach in his dressing room, peeling all that away by just saying "Christopher" in that suave tone of his.  He shouldn't be angry, Zach's just being a friend and coming to see him to praise him as quickly as possible, and he had every right to assume he could just burst into Chris' room like they both had with their trailers when they were still together on _Trek_ \-- _still never together on Trek, that's a rich vein of misery to mine later, Chris, and here you thought you'd forgotten--_ and Chris quickly stuffs the anger down, out of sight.

  
  


Zach notices though, and pushes off from the door with the foot he's braced there, all insouciance until his eyes sharpen and he paces over to Chris.  "You okay?"

  
  


  
 _God, he's wearing Obsession for Men, how fucking fitting,_ Chris thinks as Zach steps into his space, and then it's back, all that yearning and _urge_ and it's all Chris can do not to plaster himself to Zach's body-- all he can do to push down the need to rip open his own ribcage and tear his heart out so he can hand it to Zach, proof he's not worthy when they both see how it's not red and beating, just a small, two dimensional mirror people can use to see what they want.  Chris swallows and nods, then steps away and walks toward the closet, retrieving the suit he'd hung in there earlier and hanging it on the back of the bathroom door so he can dress. 

  
  


"Yeah," he finally answers.  "Just..."

  
  


"Character headspace..." Zach says, cutting him off.  "Sorry.  Shouldn't have intruded quite yet."  He doesn't look repentant at all.  Chris ventures a longer look, then, and Zach's just giving him one in return that is far more complex than someone who gets a bit of Chris' art, as if Chris wouldn't be a pretentious fuck to call it that.  Chris smiles in defense, not knowing which smile he's unfurled and tied on before he says "Yeah, well ... it's okay.  Gotta snap out of it sometime or other.  Let me grab a quick shower, you can hang if you want."

  
  


Zach waits a few beats before nodding agreement, then gives Chris a thoughtful look with which he isn't familiar and sits in the one comfortable chair in the room, a naugahyde armchair in orange that clashes beautifully with Zach's shirt and his suavity.  The contrast only highlights Zach's perfection in all settings. "Go shower," he says then.  "You stink."

  
  


He doesn't answer Chris' "Let's hope the critics don't think so," but Chris had his back turned when he said it before shutting the door, so maybe that _angstytwelveyearoldgirl_ slip escaped Zachary's notice.  Chris sure as fuck hopes so.

  
  


\--

  
  


He talks to parents and friends who've also rushed Chris' dressing room, other _Trek_ cast and Zach's brother Joe among them, one weird Hollywood family, and the place is full of flowers and champagne and booze by the time he comes out of the shower.  Zach is enthroned on orange naugahyde, calm in the chaos and so fucking intent in his looks and comments leveled at Chris in the midst of the rest of his life here at the Geffen that he realizes ignoring the fact of Zach Quinto's existence between the end of the junket and now has not only been utterly useless, but that Zach knows exactly what Chris has been doing and is just waiting for Chris to crack and admit everything.  Or something like that.  Of course, he's still elegant and dignified and inscrutable, and Chris doesn't know what Zach's endgame is. 

Chris makes his way out to the stagedoor to do autographs before too much time has passed and does pictures and all that stuff with fans, _manymanymany_ of them proclaiming themselves proud fangirls of _Star Trek_ , and two even want a pic with him holding a sign for ONTD_Startrek.  He pretends like he has no idea what it is, yet feels warm like he did months ago that these fangirls would have no problem with him kissing Zach in real life.  He lets that thought buoy him a little, though he's still feeling sandpaper-unsettled-- he needs the warmth of women who want him to fuck his favorite disease to lend him some courage for the rest of the night, because of course Zach's invited to the wrap party, and of course he said he was coming.  " _Wild horses and all that shit,"_ he'd texted Chris when Chris emailed him to make the invitation, and Chris had wished it was true because _fuck,_ he was tired of sweeping exits and offstage lines.

  
  


"Adoring public assauged for the moment?" Zach asks, accenting the question with an eyebrow that speaks a different language than Spock's, and Chris laughs at his sardonic tone, ignoring the jump in his stomach at Zach's usual flowery words.  He's just going to have to get used to Zach again, that's all. 

  
  


"For now."  His parents have gone on ahead, Katie tells him, so for now it's just his sister and Zoe and Zach-- and man, Zoe looks awesome, life would be so simple if he could just dig her instead, since she's said she's "not into attachment."  His sister and two of his bigscreen family make a good boy/girl boy/girl mix for leaving the theater for the paparazzi to shoot.  He wonders briefly if Zach's arranged it this way, especially since Katie and Zoe will probably melt off to the bar at the party and then Chris is going to get an earful of whatever Zach's thinking that's burning the air all around them.  Or maybe Chris is hallucinating. 

  
  


Probably that.

  
  


\--

  
  


Chris drifts in the eddies and swirls of attention and need for attention at the wrap party, complimenting and complementing his colleagues and having the same done in return.  He's drunk and disoriented, now, on the praise and only that because it's a glass of club soda with lime in his hand, nothing more.  His agent and publicist tag team him and drag him around to three other production companies' muckety-mucks who've somehow gotten invited, so he makes small talk about how he's looking forward to working with Denzel Fucking Washington because the man is a genius of understatement and class (though he says is with more words and sincerity even than that) before talking characterization and Chris' love for variety in parts.  He doesn't bring up the books that he's reading because that's not what muckety-mucks do-- they have flunkies for that, and Chris won't commit the first sin of Hollywood, trying to come across smarter than the person you're talking to.  Like flotsam and jetsam, he bumps into his parents and friends and Zach, even, a whole category unto himself, talking with them and the other people requiring attention-- until suddenly the party's emptying out and Chris is dizzy and drained-feeling, like he's had the flu for a week and sat up too quickly from bed.

  
  


"Hey..." Zach says, appearing at Chris' elbow, a solid dark presence.  "Zoe and Katie took off in your car with Joe and John and Anton a bit ago,.  You want to go get something to eat, see if we can track them down?"

  
  


Normally, shitty Chinese food or sushi-- _California comfort food--_ or even some Vietnamese would be just what Chris wants, but he's inexplicably tired and says so.  Zach smiles at the multi-syllable word, then says "Well, at least you're not subverbal," and nudges Chris' hand, the one holding the remains of his club soda.  "Here, hydrate yourself a bit more, Christopher," he says quietly, "I'll go get the car and be back in ten, meet me outside."

  
  


Chris just nods agreement and drinks the rest of his water, returning the glass to the bar-- he doesn't want to be one of those actors who ignore the fact that the bartender or waitress du jour is also likely an actor-- and gets a small, thankful smile from the young woman tending bar in return.  She looks vaguely familiar, but then so many people do in this town besides Zach-- he's just unique, not a commodity but a prize beyond rubies, not that he'd ever consider playing the wife, much less Chris'. 

  
  


When he makes his way out, Zach's just pulling around with his Prius-- black and somehow sleeker than other people's geek hybrids, though the things are practically a dime a dozen in town, eco-chic being all the rage between Leo and Cameron and Drew and other, brighter stars than Chris Pine. Chris is thinking more about his post-retirement bookstore than replacing his car when it comes to counting his pennies, though _yes_ , he should stop using quite so much gas.  Maybe Ben Affleck and Matt Damon will back his bookselling venture-- they're both smart guys and while Chris doesn't flatter himself that he's any competition for them, he _is_ a young pretty face of the moment and those guys have kids to feed, unlike Chris.  Chris would take a buyoff big enough to keep him in cardigans and book catalogues, and tonight he's so tired and his garnet-paper soul is rubbing itself again-- if they wrote him a big enough check right here, right now, he'd be at the real estate agent's tomorrow, drama kinging his way into some prime bookstore space ASAP.

  
  


"Are you getting in?" Zach asks, leaning over to look at Chris through the passenger window, and Chris shakes himself like the labrador puppy he's sometimes compared to, feeling flustered with not-yet-grown-into limbs and ears.  He keeps zoning out and he hates that shit.

  
  


Zach fills the space in the car with gossip from the party, including ragging on the dresses of some of the women attending, and Chris laughs as his unabashed cattiness.  "Well, you can turn stylist when you get tired of acting," Chris says with a smile.  "Make everyone adhere to your fabulous standards."

  
  


"I don't plan to get tired of acting," Zach says solemnly.  "Nope.  Oscar Mayer commercials in my decrepitude, I won't go down without making every last Shatnerian grasp at fame, and fuckall with dignity."  Despite his humorous words, Chris knows Zach's not joking, so he says "I doubt it will come down to that, you'll die on stage doing the darkest, best Lear anyone's seen since Captain Picard before you have to do Priceline."

  
  


"Okay, Prospero, whatever, I'm not the one with another film in the can and two more lined up and now fucking Broadway's going to jizz in its pants after they get a gander at your performance tonight," Zach says, unexpectedly, his voice somewhat heated.  "I mean, come on, Chris, step outside your head for ten seconds or more and embrace your own virtuousity."

  
  


Chris doesn't handle praise well, as much as he needs it, and his stomach actually lurches and sweat breaks out on his forehead at Zach's words, spoken behind closed windows and the scent of his cologne and his pomade and his essence filling the car.  "I'm going to open a bookstore in Berkeley when _my charms are all o'erthrown_ , and then I can sit on a stool in the back and watch the store cat accost everyone who comes through the door," he says instead, so desperate to deflect Zach's praise that he brings up a plan he's never told anyone, ever.  But ruminations on actorly mortality-- because it's Hollywood, and Chris' name isn't Clooney or DeNiro or Pacino or Ford, exceptions to the rule that going grey means riding off into the sunset-- are preferable to any discussion of what a good actor Chris is, because he's not a good actor at all.  Zach needs to just stop being so nice, that's all.

  
  


By now, Zach's parking in front of Chris' house and shockingly, there aren't any paps out front-- maybe Paris Hilton slipped on a banana or something and they're all there, filming the carnage.  Chris opens the door hard on his mercantilist confidence and heads up to the house, afraid to ask Zach if he's coming or look over his shoulder to see if his friend will follow him in.  The car door closes behind him, though, and then his front door closes too, Zach's slow careful steps in hard shoes over Chris' uncarpeted floor clacking as Chris leans against his kitchen island and loosens his tie.

  
  


"What's the matter with you, Chris?" Zach asks, and _oh fuck,_ he's leaning in and placing his hands on the counter behind Chris, caging him in and invading Chris' space.  "You're like a goddamned zombie tonight."

  
  


  
 _Yeah, well, I had my characters under control before I fell in love with you, you bastard, and you had to come in before I got back in my head and now I'm fucking exhausted._ He doesn't say this, however-- instead, he just mumbles "Dunno, been a while since I did a play I guess.  Different energy thing."  Zach's Valrhona Noir eyes bore into him and Chris knows he's not getting off that easy, a fucking horrible thing because Zach is standing so close that if Chris wasn't terrified right about now, he'd have a boner of epic proportions.

  
  


"Bullshit," Zach says concisely.  "You're ... you've just gotten weirder and weirder since St. Petersburg," -- _right, just when I admitted I was in love with you to myself,_ Chris says internally-- "and it's fucking annoying, Chris, frankly."

  
  


"I'm a weird guy," Chris offers, faintly.  _Faintly_ \-- because yes, he is a twelve-year-old-girl and tween rom-coms are all he's good for in the end. 

  
  


"You're not weird," Zach says quietly, and yet his voice might as well be a sonic boom in the room because fuck if Chris can remember to breathe or remind his heart how to beat.  "You are, however, unduly self-deprecating," he continues with a glint in his eye, "and in total, utter denial of your right to attempt both a career and some kind of private life, to the apparent detriment of your mental and physical health.  I thought you were less ascetic than that.  If I'd realized you were going to turn yourself into a hermit for what was, admittedly, a brilliant performance, then I'd have made you come stay with me so I could at least make sure you ate more than coffee and tuna straight from the can, since Katie says you've gone all Saint Francis on your family, too."  He pushes back just a bit, tugging Chris' tie out of the rest of its loop, and unbuttoning Chris' shirt as he tugs it-- _clinically, like he's Bones McCoy all of a sudden--_ out of his pants, eyeing Chris sternly. 

  
  


"Tuna and caffeine are not sustainable sources of calories, Chris," Zach chides, coolly poking the ridges of Chris' ribs, once again visible, the ones he'd been examining with some satisfaction back at the Geffen.  "And abs won't win you an Oscar, either, no matter what Ryan Reynolds and Jason Straithairn might think."

  
  


Chris isn't chicken, and though he's freaked the fuck out right about now because Zach has apparently acquired some _Heroes_ mindreading power-ish shit, he's not going to push Zach away and let him know he's getting to him, getting under his skin each time his fingers make contact or his mouth makes its way around beautiful words that mean he gives some kind of shit about Chris. 

  
  


"I'm fine," he says, listening to his own voice to make sure it's firm and not hollow.  "You've just never been around me at this point in my work before, and Katie doesn't know what she's talking about, she's never around when I'm really working."  It's a lie, all of it, but it's better than saying nothing at all.  "Now that Stephen's all set, I can set foot in sunlight again."  He means that vow-- he'll be social again and make up for whatever lack Zach's accusing him of-- this headspace is a little bit toxic and maybe some videogames with his friends will cure what's making him rub on his own painful edges. 

Zach just looks at him, hands replaced on the counter on either side of his hips, his tie now brushing Chris' partly-bared stomach from the angle at which Zach's leaning in.  Chris is not going to flinch or deeply inhale of Zach's scent or acknowledge he's dizzy again with Quinto's proximity, much less admit that his words are getting to Chris.

  
  


"That's bullshit.  You're all fucked up in the head and you won't tell me why and it's frankly insulting, Chris," Zach says, real heat creeping into his voice.  "I've known you for what, almost two years now?  And you didn't hesitate to bitch to me about work and finding your character and you didn't pull this shit with _Carriers_ , you went out like a normal human, not someone who didn't deserve social congress because of some twisted idea that he's all form and no substance.  No, you've been increasingly twitchy since St. Petersburg, and then you got even worse when we were in Seoul, and I want to know what the hell's going on with you."

  
  


Since of course that's just what it is, that plus the _if you knew how I felt and even wrote it in fanfiction for fuck's sake you'd hate me_ thing, Chris really has numb tongue this time, and Zach just stares at him while Chris tries and fails to deny what Zach's saying.  This is why he hates and loves Zach-- because he's completely defenseless and lame in comparison.

  
  


He works with the lame angle. 

  
  


"I'm tired, Zach," he says, "and I just want to go to bed."  Leaning forward a bit doesn't make Zach step away, so he concedes a bit more just so Zach will leave and Chris won't cry like a girl because nothing fits where it's supposed to anymore.  "You can chide me tomorrow, okay?"  There's a long pause, and Chris' "please" is positively from pink-sparkly-heart-ville.  Zach frowns for a moment before stepping away, and Chris seizes the chance to breathe in something besides Zach and slides past him and back toward his bedroom, yanking his tie off and dragging it as he flails out of his jacket, even more uneven inside himself than before.

  
  


Of course, Zach's hard shoes are clacking on Chris' pergo floors-- at least he's that eco-conscious-- behind him and turning around, he tries to give a stern look at his friend, even as his jacket's somehow gotten tangled and flapping off of one arm.  "Go away, Zach," Chris finally growls, suppressing a mewl of frustration that his goddamned good Calvin Klein suit is trying to kill him as he glares at his still-unruffled infinite object of desire.  "Come back in the morning, I'll let you watch me eat carbs for breakfast someplace with a patio."  He gives his jacket-trapped arm one more frustrated flap and Zach tsks at him, eyes gleaming.  


  
  


"You're like a puppy sometimes, swear to God, Christopher," he says, striding forward and pulling the item away from Chris even as he backs Chris into the wall of his own hallway.  "You just want to stay out of trouble and play by Hollywood's rules for prettyboy blondes and you just keep getting in deeper despite yourself, and it's both adorable and infuriating because you're not a puppy at all.  And you're driving me batshit insane with your anorexic teenage girl sense of self and your stupid, obnoxious, overly-literate insistence on using words that call even more attention to that fuckable mouth, which is not a thought I should be having _at all_ about my very heterosexual co-star, except see, tonight, at the party, you were talking to that buzzard from Searchlight and the way you said the word _heteronormative_ when talking about that cliche of a film _Dorothy_ _made_ me think you're not such a suave sesquipedalian bastard at all, and _maybe_ you wouldn't freak out if I kissed you.  Or you'd at least stop freaking out about whatever the hell's got you acting all Plath on me and I'm just glad your oven's convection, not gas.  Because honestly, Christopher?  Angst is not a good look on you.  If you need some poetry in your life I can read you Neruda.  In the meantime, I'd prefer it if you'd just act like the charming brilliant jackass you can be when you're not looking at your belly-button full time.  Although it's a very nice belly-button."  


  
  


Chris isn't quite sure what in this dark-eyed, dark-voiced monologue of Zach's breaks him-- the repeated use of his full-name, the heartfelt tone of it all, the admission of mutual attraction, the use of Chris' own nickname for Zach to name Zach's own sexual frustration.  It's probably the Sylvia Plath reference in the end, because well, yeah, Chris is a sucker for literary trivia, and when Zach leans his body against Chris' deliberately, using all the advantage his one inch's height over Chris gives him to work a little more leverage, Chris can't help the small whine that escapes him when Zach's _oh, yeah, baby_ erection parallels Chris' and Zach pushes, physically and meta, _pushing, pushing, pushing_ as he mouths contradictory words on Chris' skin, in his ear, over his mouth. 

  
  


 _"...send the books back to their shelves_ ," he says, licking the shell of Chris' ear as he gasps at Zach's choice of poems, a hyperliterate demand that Chris get the fuck out of his own head.  " _I'm going down into the streets_."

  


He latches his mouth onto Chris' neck when that thing in Chris _snaps_ and he pushes Zach the rest of the way down the hall and into the bedroom, shoving him hard onto the bed as he kicks his own shoes to the side, all control gone.  "I have to know the ending to _everything_ ," he hears himself snarl as he tosses his shirt and Zach sits up just enough to start undressing himself.  "I even skip to the end of the cereal box, _Zachary_ ," he says next, belt fumbled undone and button snapped open as Zach's pristine jacket and shirt follow his tie to the floor.

  
  


Zach lunges over into a crawl and tugs Chris forward by the waist of his pants, mumbling " _I learned about life/ from life itself,/ love I learned in a single kiss_ " over the plane of Chris' stomach as he tugs Chris' pants and boxers down, skating his hands over Chris' ass as he licks one hot stripe over his cock-- then looks up at him through sooty silk lashes and rubs his coal-diamond stubble over Chris' stomach before finishing his poetic retort-- " _and could teach no one anything/ except that I have lived_."

  
  


"I practically cry if someone squeezes my toothpaste tube in the middle, I'm such a control freak," he somehow manages to gasp next, but Zach doesn't care because the next thing Chris knows he's flat on his back and Zach's staring down at him, using his mad yoga skills to work his own pants off one-handed while the other one teasingly makes its way over Chris' dick.

  
  


"We'll hire a maid," he says as if there's nothing more worth discussing.  "And you don't have to skip to the end first if there isn't an ending."

  
  


"It's not that easy," Chris protests, arching and hissing when Zach licks his way over one of Chris' ribs, one hand on Chris' shoulder weighing him down.  Like Chris could leave now if he tried.

  
  


"It's not that hard, either, Christopher," Zach says, taking Chris' cock fully in hand and stroking him firmly.  Chris' " _nnnrpgh_ " isn't articulate at all, and Zach laughs at him, the complete, utter _bastard_.  "The way I see it, and I don't think you'll disagree that I'm pretty perceptive most of the time," he says, lowering himself to rub his cock against Chris', "I already know that you wake up at 6:35 every morning when you're home and read the papers for twenty-five minutes at a go three times a day and that you know exactly how much two cups of vegetables is and never eat more in any one sitting because you hate green things with a passion, and I also know that you're always a gentleman because no matter how many times I've played more drunk than I really was, you never once took advantage despite the fact that it would have been very much welcome.  I also know that you always tried to make sure craft services had something vegetarian on offer on set and that those little word games of ours made you almost as hard as they made me, you polysyllabic sonofabitch."

  
  


He grinds so hard then against Chris that they both moan, and Zachary's glittering smile shines at him in the bedroom like a goddamned supernova.  _Ah.  It was foreplay, then._ Chris thought it might have been.

  
  


"Fine," Chris gasps into Zach's neck, before licking his way up to his ear.  "Don't ... blame ... me ..." he grits out, rolling Zach until now Chris is on top, "if two months from now I drive you insane with my vapid teeth-gnashing." 

  
  


He grins against the nipple he's sucking when Zach gives a gasp and a whimper, hands hard on Zach's sides as he explores the taste of this man who's like caviar and chocolate and red wine and steak, a banquet of flavours and sounds all dark, heady and good that's got Chris drooling with greed now that Zach's decided he's had enough of Chris' indecision-- although this launch of Zach's body at his is far preferable to that bridge scene and Chris tells his brain to shut up while he starts licking Zach harder.

  
  


He's whining in protest at being denied the chance to taste his first cock when Zach rolls him and pins him again, breathing hot in Chris' ear, the literal manifestation so much better than his dream incarnation.  "I happen to find your insecurity quite sexy in measured doses, I'll just have to fuck you every time you get whiny on me," winds that dark voice into his brain and " _gah,_ " _now_ Chris is subverbal because that's Zach's mouth on his cock and "Nnnrrgghppph" is all he's capable of any more.

  
  


Zach laughs while he sucks Chris in even deeper and _Oh, that's why they call it a hummer_ and Chris is just holding on for all that he's worth, because if Zach knows all this other shit that Chris would never confess to, then he knows Chris has never done this before and Chris should just lie back and let Zach have his way with him, the path of least resistance being both efficient and Chris' heart's desire right about now.

  
  


No one has ever accused Chris of not giving each new role his all, of throwing whatever passion is in him into making each new character true.  It's the same here and goddamnit if Chris Pine and Zach Quinto In Bed For the First Time isn't going to be fanfuckingtastic, so Chris deploys what many girlfriends have called "talented hands" to touch every inch of Zach's hirsute and yet somehow still-soft skin, working to pull out as many sharp inhales and gasps from his kneading fingers and grasping palms as Zach earns with that goddamned fabulous mouth, which, though silent but for obscenely arousing slurping and sucking noises, is just as talented-- no, moreso-- than Chris thought it would be.  He's got just enough concentration to keep touching even if his mouth isn't capable of words anymore-- at least until Zach switches things up and pushes Chris' legs up over his shoulders, using his tongue to "Jesus Christ, Zach," Chris whimpers at that first circling swirl of Zach's tongue where no man (much less vapid model-cum-starlet-actress or girlfriend) has gone, boldly or not, ever before.

  
  


He's tormenting Chris because in between swirling licking stabs of his tongue and _holyfuckChrisjustcouldn'timagine_ , Zach's talking again, saying "Tell me you've got something besides hand lotion in that drawer over there," but there's so much stimulation that Chris is beyond concentration.  Only Zach's mouthing his balls gets his "oh fucking Christ, Zach" attention so Zach can repeat himself.  Chris can't think, he's buzzing too hard, and all those sandpaper edges are smoothed down by the coal-diamond burr of Zach's face on his skin, so Zach finally laughs after getting no answer again and licks his way up Chris' body again before lying across Chris to reach into the drawer. 

  
  


"Good," he says, maybe to Chris, maybe himself, when he finds the small bottle of lube.  "But we're going to need a lot more of this after tomorrow," he says, a completely in-control, assured look on his face, like he knows the ending to this new Zach and Chris story already and he's not worried at all.  "I'll give you a shopping list," he says then, grinning wickedly.  "I bet you like lists, don't you Christopher?"

  
  


Fuck it.  Captain Wentworth would have totally whimpered at that look on Zach's face.  Chris is proud of himself for following up that puffy-pink-heart of a sigh with an "Affirmative," though, and Zach's hips against his jerk involuntarily, a groan escaping the man who's perhaps less in control than he seems.

  
  


"Oh, I'll get you for that one, Christopher Pine," Zach growls, hitching back and slicking himself up before sliding more wetly again against Chris' length

  
  


"Did you need me to acquiesce instead, Zachary Quinto?" Chris manages with a totally studly wheeze in his voice, and that earns him another hard jerk as Zach closes his eyes while their lengths slide together.

  
  


"Or maybe I need to signal agreement..." Chris taunts, on the edge of something where who Chris is flies right away and needing Zach to come with him.

  
  


"You fucker," Zach grunts, surging back just enough to yank Chris' hips up from the bed and push _insistently firmly continuously unceasingly_ _"oh, God, yes, don't ever stop"_ Chris moans at the prod at his opening until Zach's all the way in and then _fuck_ this is why Chris didn't fit right back in with Stephen, he needed Zach in here too.

  
  


" _Holy shit holy shit holy shit_ ," Zach is babbling, rigid and shaking and still as he thrusts to the end of his length, which is good because Chris is out of his depth, in over his head and he never wants to come up for air.  And then it's immeasureable and everything's relative, time and space and physical limits because the two of them are surging and clasping and gasping and holding and clawing and it could go on forever, right up until it can't anymore because with each hard thrust, Zach's stroking hard over _something_ that makes Chris see more stars than the whole crew of Enterprise on its five year fucking mission each time they move-- Zach's mouthing words in his ear again, William Carlos William's _Queen Anne's Lace_ , for fuck's sake, and Chris is amazed he can think this much, and the voice of temptation murmurs " _Wherever/ his hand has lain there is/ a tiny purple blemish_ " while he thumbs the birthmark on Chris' hip-- not even his cock, _ohholyshithe'sincredible_ \-- and Chris shouts, coming harder and faster and " _whiteness gone over_ " like Zach moans in his ear right before he arches, his own voice rising a register as he straight-out _keens_ Chris' name, trailing off in a whimper as he slams the last hot spurts of his release into Chris, out of control as Chris grabs and pulls him to him.

  
  


Zach collapses, head in the join of Chris' shoulder, and does nothing but wheeze into Chris' skin for long moments as Chris enjoys the daze and the smell and feel of them like this, redefined, and explores Zach's topography with his fingers.  He laughs when Zach whispers "wordslut" into his ear.

  
  


"Pretty much," Chris responds, his voice a low rumble, and he scrambles for thoughts, for answering words-- then laughs again, light in the dark room with the dark man atop him and says "There are plums in the icebox if you want them.  They're delicious."  It's true, though not so delicious as Zach, their dusk purple skins no match for what Chris has right here atop him.

  
  


Zach licks the side of his neck, twitching and already growing half-hard inside him again.  " _So sweet and so cold_?"

  
  


Chris' answering purr is wordless, as is Zach's answer, and body language suffices for the rest of the night, no ending in sight.  


  


  


  



End file.
